


Five Paths to Oblivion

by Lilbreck



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-03
Updated: 2010-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-09 06:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/84258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilbreck/pseuds/Lilbreck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She just hasn't decided how she wants to lose herself / she imagines this is how he makes love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Paths to Oblivion

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written/posted 03-22-04

There are an infinite number of ways to lose yourself she knows. Painful ways, quick ways, supernatural ways. She has five very different ways at her disposal. All she has to do is make a move. As she goes through her normal days, she sometimes contemplates the possibilities,

She's informing Angel on the progress of one thing or another, delivering information on autopilot, as she contemplates losing herself in him. Either he's looking at her in a way that could mean he's deeply interested in what she's saying, or that he is a million miles away. When he looks at her like this, she almost feels as if he's memorizing every detail of her, absorbing her into the vastness of his memories. After countless minutes of this, sometimes he'll just say her name in a way that makes her feel as if he knows her inside out or, conversely that she holds the key to keeping him together. She imagines this is how he makes love, completely focused on the details, cataloging every sound and movement. This thought for some reason brings to mind the smell and feel of her grandmother's attic at home, full of age and mystery. Then she'll remember that moment in the alley after he learned the truth about Jasmine. He seemed so lost, like a child almost. Maybe this is how it would be, her playing the role of comforter, cradling him in her arms as he tries to find himself. She tries her best to ignore the flash of steel bars and a silky voice in her head (_but I hear you at night in your room... the things you say. I'm lying there, listening, hands under the covers..._). These memories only bring a confused mixture of fear and want. She knows this would be the most dangerous way to lose herself. Sometimes, though, late at night, she'll imagine just that, and wonder if it might not be worth it. Those are thoughts she'll never share with anyone, they wouldn't understand.

As she walks past Charles' office, she can hear him ending a phone conversation.  
Quickly, before he can start to dial the phone she enters his office, calling his name with a smile. While she makes plans with him for lunch, her mind conjures up memories of nights spent desperately trying to crawl into each other's skin. This could possibly be the easiest way to get lost in someone. She imagines making love with him again would be slow and heavy like jazz or honey. She's already mapped out every inch of his body, remembers the routes and paths that make him shiver and say her name like a prayer. She knows the words to say to get him worked up to the point he feels like he'll die if he can't have her. Fred knows this time around would have all the comfort of knowledge and none of the almost painful desperation of being in love.

Walking into the hall, still thinking on nights spent exploring skin far darker and more rough than her own, Wes stops her. When he says her name, she catches a trace of the almost feral love he holds for her before he hides it again. He's getting much better at that, makes it easier to ignore the power she could hold over him. Listening to him discuss some fowl up with a weapon churned out by her department she thinks on his love for her. If she let him, she knows on a purely basic level that he would make love to her like he was worshiping at an alter. Prayers would be whispered at the bend of her knee, a sigh, like a benediction, would be brushed across her hip. She would become his goddess, his reason for being. This thought scares her, for she knows worship can become obsession. There is a darkness she can see just under the surface of his skin (_He was threatening you. He pointed a gun at you, Fred... so I shot him_). She feels responsible for its presence, as if somehow she's the chink in his armor, the downfall of a good and loyal man. When she dwells on her guilt, deserved or otherwise, she is left with a taste like rum soaked cherries in the back in her throat. The taste isn't entirely unpleasant, but she feels it should be. She takes her leave of him, still slightly disturbed by this.

Walking up the stairs toward her department, she hears Lorne singing. Pausing she searches him out, smiling slightly at the way he easily interacts with the people around him, a tune never far from his lips. He would hum and sing under his breath as he undresses her, she decides. His touch would be light as cotton candy, and his kiss just as sweet. There would be no rush with him, just a slow a natural progression as if he was performing a song he knew by heart. Seeing her he smiles and says her name, managing to make her feel like she had suddenly become center stage. He grasps her hands and some witty and yet somehow sincere flatter falls effortless from him. Definitely cotton candy she thinks as he walks off, greeting people as he walks.

She's sitting in her office trying to figure out how she managed to spend so much over budget when Spike walks in. As she engages in their usual combination of friendly flirtation and meaningful chitchat, she thinks of how he'd consume her if she gave the word. She can't help but see his smirk, the one that promises he can make her come quick and dirty in a dark corner, hand down the front of her panties. She knows, instinctively almost, that he would talk to her the whole time, harsh little phrases. Telling her how tight and hot her cunt is, how she's such a bad girl for letting him do this to her. He'll make these ugly little words sound erotic, making her face flush and her breath catch. The smell of smoke and cheap beer would mix with the scent that is unarguably Spike. Sometimes, though, she'll catch something in his eyes or a phrase (_No, luv, in the poetry_) that makes her think he would spend all night, hands on either side of her head, staring into her eyes to make sure she was right there with him. A certain knowledge in his eyes sometimes that gives evidence on a primal level that he could match her stroke for stroke, sigh for sigh.

When he has left, making some offhanded remark about bothering Angel, she stands and turns to the windows. Leaning against her desk, she sighs deeply and thinks about her boys. She knows they each love her, the form and intensity of their love as varied as their personalities. It would only take the right touch, look or word to take it further. She knows the moves, like formulas she's put together in preparation for the right time. She craves the total oblivion she can find in one of them. Each one could consume her, take her over. She just hasn't decided how she wants to lose herself.


End file.
